premiership-lads-113

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Angela White

Subject: Premiership Lads part 113: A Friend In Need Part 113: A Friend In Need He stood face-to-face with the faintly steamed mirror and ran a comb quickly through his hair, neatening the side-parting and slicking the damp brown mess into place. It was too long, since he’d avoided any radical lockdown shaves or bad bleach jobs or anything of the like, but he was satisfied by the handsome grinning bloke that looked back at him. Nothing wrong with a bit of guilty vanity, he told himself, and besides, he could do with looking his most charming and respectable for the meeting he needed to seek out. Behind him, the changing room slowly began to clear out. He slipped the comb neatly with his other belongings into his bulging kit bag, fastidious as always about his private things, but even more so in these careful times. He smiled broadly at the other lads here, half the team or so who’d been involved in this afternoon’s Middlesbrough FC training session, the first in which they’d been allowed close contact. A relief for a hot-blooded defender, for whom the recent passing, dribbling and running drills had become a bit dull and repetitive. George Friend zipped up the thin loose tracksuit top over his tshirt and pushed his ankle-socked feet into some fresh trainers, glowing with the warmth and cleanliness of a thorough shower. He hoisted his kit bag over one shoulder and waved his goodbye at the couple of lads still dressing — young Ashley Fletcher still preening over some vain skincare routine and fellow stalwart Danny Ayala slow to get dried down after the showers. Wishing them a good weekend, he made his way out with the slow drift of others, carefully maintaining slight distances despite their clean virus tests and the fact they’d been sweating wildly alongside each other on the training pitch not fifteen minutes ago. A couple of his closer pals slowed down for him, weird flashbacks to more ordinary days when they might be lurking to suggest a swift half-pint before returning home to wives and kids and another world of responsibility. This was just polite waiting, the friendly gestures of blokes glad to see each other daily after such a long break. Just ahead, Adam Clayton was grinning from behind his gingery beard, holding the door open for him. `Ah, no, just need to speak to the gaffer a minute,’ George told him promptly, a well-spoken Devon lad with barely a trace of country burr. `Sorry, pal, thanks for hanging back there…’ `Oh alright,’ rasped the stocky midfielder with a tone of mock offence, `this a meeting for just the important folk, then? Hah…’ `Oh yeah,’ Friend chuckled lightly, `captain’s responsibilities, you know!’ `Daft prick,’ sniggered Clayton playfully with a quick wink. `Catch you later, Gorgeous.’ `Yep — speak soon, bud.’ He gave a jokey little salute to the other seasoned Boro lad and turned right, away from the door and the general exodus of freshly showered football, down a different passage lined with a variety of storerooms and offices. Gorgeous George, he thought lightly, laughing at the old nickname Adam had pulled up there in their brief exchange. It had been a popular tag for Friend in his early years at the club, back in 2012, and at some point had been very embarrassing for his shy younger self. Now 32, he was far more relaxed about his looks and the fuss they sometimes brought from his mates, colleagues and adoring fans. He could shrug it off comfortably and not become too obsessive or insecure about his relative handsomeness, which he was wise enough to humbly deny and ignore whenever it came up in conversation. Still, just like in the mirror a minute ago, he could occasionally enjoy the idea that he was one of the more attractive blokes at the club, even now in his 30s, and despite being utterly loyal to his beautiful wife, he never went short of admirers! Still… Loyal and unswerving in his marriage and sex life, yes, but not faithful in every respect, he told himself sternly. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be dawdling at the training centre and avoiding the drive back to the big family home in the North Yorkshire hills, would he? No, George Friend had picked up a little problem that he couldn’t yet share with the missus, so here he was, turning to the other `boss’ in his daily life, in the hope of a spot of assistance. Woodgate’s office was the last door on the passage, much smaller than his bigger and more formal space at the club’s proper Riverside stadium. George reached the door and grinned hopefully through the glass panel before briefly rapping his knuckles against it and listening out for the gruff `Come in’ from the Boro manager. He twisted the handle and stepped in, shrinking his 6ft2 frame a little instinctively against the rather claustrophobic space of this cupboard-like managerial office in the training building. `Georgey boy,’ said Jonathan Woodgate, cheerily but wearily, looking up from a sheaf papers and giving him a vague smile that conveyed a sense of `What now?’ `Come on in,’ he said with politeness and a hint of impatience, `have a seat if you like.’ He looked back at his paperwork and then turned briefly to the blue-light buzz of an open laptop. `Do you have a minute, boss?’ Friend asked, folding into the spare seat and turning to face the boss, hiking up the loose black Nike shorts about his thighs and lowering his heavy bag to the floor for a moment or two. He studied the permanently harassed look of the Championship club’s relatively young and inexperienced manager, a guy he had played alongside on the pitch not so long ago. `For our Gorgeous captain?’ chuckled Woodgate a little distractedly. He looked up properly from his work and gave a fuller smile, a distracted tiredness still in his shady eyes. `George, mate, what’s up? Everything alright with the training today, skip?’ `Oh — yes!’ A little too enthusiastic. He nodded his chiselled features and fumbled his hands against one another in his lap. `Yes, great actually. Bloody brilliant to get some tackling in. You know how it is,’ he added, playing on their shared experience as tough, no-nonsense defensive players. `No, nothing wrong with training, Woody… oh, sorry…’ It was a deliberate mistake, a little nod to their few years as teammates here at the beginning of his own Boro career. Jonathan laughed fondly. `Don’t apologise, you can still call me that. We’re still mates. And none of the youngsters here to set an example for!’ `Hah, yes,’ Friend agreed, aware of his main role as skipper. `Woody, then — it’s just a little problem, erm, kind of a private matter, actually, and it’s just — well –` `Spit it out,’ Woody demanded. `This awkward isn’t like you, posh boy.’ He grinned cheekily, the rough-and-ready local lad done good. He shuffled about the papers on his small desk and pulled shut the laptop, seeming to take more interest in the visit now. George looked at him with a sudden grip of the anxiety he’d held down all day, and in all those cheerful little interactions with the lads on the pitch before — holding up his captain’s position, positive and encouraging and supportive. The truth was that he was falling apart today, and for the past few days since he’d realised his position. Could he really trust Jonny Woodgate? He liked the guy, and he was enjoying his tenure as manager — a less fraught period than several of his predecessors. But he knew the local Middlesbrough lad was not altogether… straightforward. Woody had enjoyed a patchy career as a left-back, something of a failure in his European move, and a troubled bloke when returning to Boro — George remembered being a much younger guy, politely declining the strong cocaine that the now `respectable’ chief coach had been dishing out to all and sundry. Jonny Woodgate is a Red, the fans would chant, but Jonny Woodgate was the party hook-up for most of the squad and their WAGs, a shifty character to say the least. Not that Friend was too judgmental, or held it against him, but… He was a complicated fella. Perhaps, really, that’s why he felt able to come out with it and… `George,’ the manager said a bit more softly. `What’s up, mate?’ So George told him. He explained how he’d always known he found gambling a bit addictive; his more youthful run-ins with casinos and poker circuits, even before moving up to Teesside for his big contract here, 8 seasons ago. He explained how much he’d avoided any kinda gambling for years as a result, explained the boredom and restlessness that had come over him a couple of weeks into the Championship season shutdown. He tried to keep his voice cool and realistic but he found himself getting a bit emotional and awkward as he explained it all: the online gambling he’d found himself sucked into, the debts he’d racked up. The money he now owed into their joint account and could not bring himself to explain to his smiling, oblivious wife, happily occupied with their kids. When he’d finished, he realised that Woody hadn’t spoken in some time. He just clicked quietly at the pen in one hand and stroked his rough greying stubble with the other. `Shit, mate,’ he sighed after a few moments’ silence between them. `That’s a tough gig. I have to say… I’m a bit shocked at ya, mate.’ George frowned sadly. `I mean, I ain’t judgin’ — obviously — I just mean, of all the blokes to in here, sayin’ this to me…’ `I know,’ Friend said, finding his own voice feeble and effeminate in the circumstances. `Look, Woody, this is a slip, this is NOT me. I can knock it all on the head and get back on track. I just need to replace this mersin escort money. That’s all. And — I mean — it isn’t the worst debt in the world, is it, it’s just — if I don’t get it back in that joint account on time then she’ll see, you see, and then…’ He brought a hand up to rub the throbbing vein his brow and pull back some strands of still-damp dark hair. `I’m in quite a pickle, you see, chief.’ Woodgate nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. `And you want… what, a loan?’ George coughed and shifted as he answered, hating this begging much more than the confession, which was surprisingly cathartic. `I thought maybe the club could advance my wages for a couple of months,’ he said, hating how it sounded. He could see from the apologetic frown on the other man’s face that this was not happening, felt his own posture droop. `I couldn’t ask you for a loan from your own money, Jonny,’ he added quietly, though that was very much his last option. `It wouldn’t be right… I couldn’t put that pressure on you…’ `Friend, mate… my hands are tied. On both counts. I can’t be shifting about club money, or even ask the guys upstairs to… It’s really not for me to get involved with, Friend. And I do not think you wanna be taking this same story to the chairman, do you? Speaking of chairmen… yeh, the wife, I mean. I can’t loan you my own money — you know I would, but then the missus would wanna know, and she’d be straight on to your lass at the next social, and… George, pal, I don’t think I can help you. I cannot give you the kind of money you’re talkin’ about. I’m so sorry, pal.’ George lowered his head, holding the hand up against his face, trying to hide his sickened and distraught expression; the fall of his overgrown hair helped a little, shielding some of his gutted frown. He tried to keep his breathing cool and neutral. He regretted even coming in here — now his manager knew all about his dirty secret and wasn’t even providing the answer. A waste of honesty. The catharsis of confession was gone; just shame and regret, and- `You’re pretty desperate, ain’t you?’ Woodgate asked in his harsh Teesside accent. `Yeh,’ Friend said weakly, `that pretty much sums it up.’ `I can’t give you that kinda money, mate. But…’ He looked up at this, sensing the uncertain edge to his boss’s voice, feeling the slim fragment of hope somewhere near his tired, training-battered body. `Well, I know how you can quickly get your hands on it.’ George stared at him, a little confused by this shift in the conversation, but holding onto that shred of hope and leaning forward in his chair, shoulders hunching on either side of his thick neck. He was fresh from the shower, could still smell the soapy aroma on his own skin, but he could also feel the sweat beading at his neck and beneath his pits, the nervous tension of the whole confrontation pulling at him physically. `How do you mean, Woody?’ he asked in a mumble. Woodgate stared almost sadly at him. `Nah, forget I said it, it’s-` `Mate,’ said George a bit more firmly, `what are you talking about?’ `I shouldn’t have,’ the 40-year-old insisted quickly. `It’s nothing, just forget I…’ `You know I’m desperate,’ the tall defender said earnestly. `You know I just need to clear this sum quickly and I’ll be all good. What are you muttering about, Jonny…? I need to know.’ `Well,’ the older bloke said in a slow, indecisive drawl, `it’s just this… well, this thing that’s come my way, and — Are you sure you wanna know about this, Gorgeous? It’s a bit dodgy. Hmm, okay. Well — there’s this website that got reported to me, and… Hmm. How do you feel about being on camera a bit, buddy…?’ Twenty minutes later, George Friend was standing stiffly in the centre of the changing rooms, back there again in the same corner, between the familiar mirror and row of pegs, his kit bag back on his shoulder. Jonny Woodgate was stood a couple of feet away from him, still dressed in the baggy hoody and identical black Nike shorts from jogging around after them at training, heavy muddy trainers on his feet. He had a rather serious expression on his face, a frown of concentration and decision-making, and his smartphone up in his hands, glancing from its screen to George and tilting the aim of its camera a few times. `You’re sure this is gonna be okay?’ Friend asked in a voice thick of caution. Why the hell was he agreeing to this? `Well, define okay,’ Woody remarked sarcastically. `It’s gonna be… It’s gonna get the money you need, quick. That’s all.’ Friend had listened in shock and outrage when Woodgate explained it all to him. It was some kinda cheapo porno site, well not quite cheapo, he supposed, if it was splashing money like this at its contributors, but… A porn site of, how had he phrased it, `candid footage’, a `sports fetish theme’ to it. It seemed Woodgate had come across the idea during the sacking of a young staff member who’d been caught taking some inappropriate footage behind the scenes, posing as just as another social media addict, but rousing suspicion with his effort and persistence — a long story short, Woody had got to the bottom of it and discovered the wily young bloke was trying to get some extra dosh on the side, having discovered a site that was paying literally £1000s to secure changing room footage of sportsmen getting in and out of their kit — and, Woodgate had hinted with a little leer, more than that, if possible. So a curious Woodgate had, apparently, checked it out a bit, out of a mixture of horror and amusement — and it all seemed legit. The website boasted its rewards for contributors very heavily. Amongst the info the retired player had fed him as they slowly reached their decision to follow this risky plan, was the assertion that it was very American site — Woodgate had argued, convincingly, that here they were in a second-league British `soccer’ team. George Friend was a hero to the Boro army but he was a nobody to the average Stateside pervert. `Even if your face gets in a bit, it’ll be fine,’ he said for the third time now, still faffing with the phone in his hands. `Honest, we don’t need much footage, it’ll be easy.’ George sighed heavily, scratched his head, fiddled with the zip of his tracksuit top. `I really appreciate the help and that, Woody, but — seriously, I think this might be a bit much, it all sounds kinda shady and…’ `Of course it’s shady,’ Jonny admitted. `Ain’t no doubt about that. But buddy — the sum we could get for this. It’ll be real quick and easy. You can be driving home to the good life in like twenty minutes or something. Easy.’ He cracked a grin, lowering the camera. `I’ve seen that charity calendar from a few years back — you, Gibbo, Nuge and co — you were hardly shy that day, haha!’ `Oh Jonny,’ groaned Friend. `That was a topless calendar for a good cause, nowt more! This shit you’re talking about is… Ergh. I dunno.’ `Let’s just try. Seriously. I’ll just sit back here and hold the cam, and all you gotta do is what we discussed. Look, if it helps, I’ll silence the recording, no noise — that way I can like… direct you, as we go. And we can put some low-grade filter on it after, make it a bit fuzzy. No HD peek of you or your… you know, physique. I swear this is gonna be easy money. For us both, if we get enough.’ George frowned at that. For a moment, Woodgate’s honourable insistence on helping out seemed a little less altruistic, but was that much of a shock…? Still, here he was, in his confidence and doing his best to provide a solution. Really, it seemed rude to be prudish and kick up a fuss, as he’d begun to do back in the office. He groaned frustratedly but nodded his head. `Okay, no sound, like you said, and you gotta talk me through it,’ he insisted, pleased by that idea for some reason. `Cos I have NOT got a clue what I’m doing here.’ `Right.’ The Boro manager backed off and sat himself down on the wooden bench running down the centre of the changing room, leaning against a metal bar, the phone tilted in both hands and that same look of intense focus on his face, an arthouse cinematographer all of a sudden. `All you do, right, is you walk out of shot then when I say go, you kinda stroll back in, and start getting changed — yeh?’ George nodded. Fuck this. He moved `out of shot’, which really meant just shuffling back towards the doors a bit, the heavy bag swinging from his shoulder a bit. The 32-year-old married father-of-two stood waiting for direction, struck by the utter stupidity of the plan — but more-so, the utter stupidity of the little gambling problem that had taken him into this mess. The gaffer’s promises stuck with him: this would be easy. This would be quick. It would be just the right money. It wasn’t a big deal; it really was just like being in these same changing rooms a few years back with a laughing female photographer, trying to get the best shots out of them for that bloody calendar that had brought him so much teasing! His six-pack wasn’t QUITE as chiselled as then, but he knew it looked decent, so… `Action,’ said Woodgate authoritatively. Friend took a deep breath and strolled back into view with a few loping steps, trying his best to seem natural but sure he was fucking even that up. `Relax,’ confirmed Woody’s voice, `you look like you’ve shat your shots. Now dump the bag down, yeah just like that…’ He swung it from his shoulder and let it land on the opposite bench with a thump, taking care not to look at the camera as he stood by it and glanced side to side. `Candid’ had been the word escort mersin Woodgate emphasised; it was all meant to look as if he was being spied on while he changed. `Now unzip your tracksuit top, but — like — slowly, aye?’ He did so, taking the zip down really slowly and feeling aware of how unsexy his striptease probably was. His hair flopped forward as he leant down, tugging the top back and over his broad shoulders, then flinging it onto a peg and pulling self-consciously at the tshirt beneath it. `Not the t-shirt yet — why don’t you do your trainers and socks, one at a time? No — not bending forward like that — do it with yer leg up on the bench, like — yeh, like that…’ George shoved one foot then the other at the bench to do as he was told, unlacing the trainers and sliding his feet out, then curling down and off the little white trainer socks. He was vaguely aware of his big muscular butt jutting out in his shorts with this motion and he felt his cheeks colour at the notion that this was the point. `Excellent,’ he heard Woodgate say now, `your big arse right in shot there, haha…’ `Mate,’ he groaned, with his back to him so he couldn’t be seen talking on the video, `please don’t make this worse than it needs to be…’ `I’m keeping it chill and funny for your sake,’ Woodgate said, defensive and sullen himself. `Yeah, er, thanks, I guess so…’ `Now the shorts, before the t-shirt.’ `Okay…’ He turned back to fake the camera, shifted about, settled on a side profile, and scooped down his Nike shorts, grappling a bit with his own chunky thighs and knees, then stepping out of them, just in the tight white briefs below. He ignored the approving chuckle and catcall form his artistic director, and took the tshirt up and off in one fluid pull, baring the toned smooth muscle of his tight torso. He kinda wished he could see the recording as it happened, know what his body looked like; that touch of vanity, in amongst the anxiety and dread. He pushed the t-shirt at the wall and onto the bench and before Woodgate even suggested it, gave his six-pack a little squeeze and tensed one arm idly, staring down at his bicep for a moment. `Looking good,’ Jonny Woodgate informed him quite seriously, `down to the briefs already… Don’t look this way! Come on, stay relaxed, natural… yeah, okay, give the bulge a bit of a squeeze…’ George’s eyes bulged and his brows lifted, but he resisted the urge to turn towards the recorder and ask `What the fuck?’ He leaned one hand on the wall a moment, inspecting the contents of his kit bag, then reached the other hand down and brushed the front of his underpants a little. `No, more than that,’ insisted the Boro manager from his comfortable seat. George felt a rough scowl of resentment on his handsome face, but he slipped his hand back that way and gentle squeezed the full, weighty package of his sports briefs. `Is this enough yet?’ he asked loudly, trying to make it look like he was calling to an imaginary teammate elsewhere in the changing rooms. `Nah, not yet,’ the local bloke muttered, sounding distracted by the camera-work. `Now you need to… I dunno… get them off…’ The question of a full monty had come up on the furtive walk down here from Woodgate’s office. Jonny had left it vague then, but his instruction sounded firmer now. George tottered from foot to foot, pushing and pulling aimlessly at the stuff in his bag, conscious of himself bending forward to do so, making his abs crunch tightly and his arse stick out a bit more, more exposed now without the shorts. He accidentally glanced nervously at the camera but kept his eyes roving; in that moment though, he saw the intensity of Woody’s expression looking down at the phone screen, the effort he was clearly putting into getting this daft footage. What a good guy he was, really! `Go on,’ his head coach said quietly, `time to lose the briefs, let’s make you some money.’ George stood up straight, rolled his head back a few times as if trying to get rid of muscle tension from a game, rather than the more awkward tension of what he was really doing. He bunched up his strong arms and pulled his thumbs down his smooth hips to find the waist of these tight briefs. He pulled out on the waist a little, accidentally teasing in his body language, twirling a little but trying to make it look relaxed and thoughtless; then he turned his back fully to the camera before beginning to lower them, figuring that some element of expectation was needed. `Yep, arse first, good thinking,’ congratulated Woody. `Bloody hell mate, that’s some booty.’ `Shut up,’ grunted Friend, but he laughed in spite of his own awkwardness, knowing his big pale buttocks were on show, meaty muscles for any American pervert to see in full. He bent forward to let the briefs really droop down the thick bulge of his thigh muscles, shifting his legs to ease them down, looking self-consciously down and wondering if he could really bear to turn around and… `Now the crown jewels, Gorgeous George — come on, give us a twirl, haha…’ Trying desperately to seem like he was idly turning round, just looking at someone passing by or checking for the time, he let his body spin around, moving his feet heavily over the dry tiles underfoot. He felt his soft cock and balls swing into view beneath the trimmed hedge of his pubes, framed beneath the taut lines of his lower abdomen. What now? He brought his arms up awkwardly, stroking up his neck and patting his own cheeks, awaiting direction… `Play with it a bit, then.’ He froze a bit at that, staring into the middle distance just over his manager’s head, but… well, it was a porno site, so… He ran one hand back down from his neck, letting it graze over the hard rise of his pecs, tickling the little cluster of chest hairs in the centre, then over his abs and towards the hang of his meat. He pulled lazily at it, more like he was taking a piss than having a cheeky touch of himself. Woodgate picked up on this. `Once more with feelin’, buddy. Oh go on. It’s just me, for fuck’s sake. We’ve shared communal showers and hotel rooms and probably the same pussies once or twice, just… yeah, that’s better…’ Friend pulled a little more, cupping his palm beneath the fat flaccid length, wondering how it looked on camera, wondering actually what the hell Woody thought of it. He was fairly sure he had a generous portion of manhood down there but who knew, really? Growers and showers, he’d heard the ladies talk about. Which was he? He wasn’t even sure. He rubbed a thumb down the length of his shaft, a little relieved it was responding a bit to his touch, because it would make it thicken and lengthen a bit more, good for the cam and for the website and whoever would handle the money, he supposed dimly… `That’s right, keep going…’ But was he going to get fully hard? That didn’t seem right, did it? This was meant to be just some candid footage, a cheeky little clip, that’s what Woody said most of the videos on their site were, so… He stroked again at his prick and unconsciously fingered at the sad of his balls too, feeling his nob twitch and stretch a bit with each passing moment. It was gonna get hard, he realised. `Good work mate, real natural, just don’t look at me… turn that way into the light a bit, yep, and… yeah… okay, just wank it…’ `What the fuck?’ he burst out, the crudeness and instructive tone of the older guy’s voice pushing him a note too far. He turned sharply in Woodgate’s direction and immediately the 40-year-old ex-player lowered the camera and rose to his feet. Naked now and semi-hard, Friend glowered at him and held his ground. He pulled his fingers from the gently lifting arch of his heavy dong, deciding against his shy instinct to plant both hands in front of it protectively. `Mate, I thought you were up for this,’ Woody sighed. `I thought we were making you the money you needed. For fuck’s sake, look at you — you were lapping up the attention a second ago, getting a right hard-on. What’s your problem?’ `My problem?’ he snapped back, then softened his voice. `Woody, mate, this isn’t quite what you said, this is…’ He felt the urge to cover up, to reach for his theatrically discarded clothing. His cock was getting harder even now, he realised. Oh for fuck’s sake, seriously? He frowned at his manager and ally and shrugged his shoulders. `Are we really going this far? Am I really having a bloody wank on your video…?’ `Hmm,’ said Jonny with that same odd air of artistic temperament. `Not in here, nah. We’ll do it in the showers, that’s best.’ When George immediately frowned disbelievingly back at him, he shrugged himself and waved the phone in the air, the video recording clearly paused. `Mate, your face is barely in this. Just your big old ass and your lovely little six-pack, you smug young prick…’ Woody grinned cajolingly at him, self-deprecating about his own lithe physique, evidently not competing with George’s ripped body, but fit enough for his age. `In the shower, you reckon?’ Friend mumbled back. `Aye, go on in, I’ll just — well if I hover at the entrance and record, it’ll look more candid, and like — your face won’t actually be in shot hardly at all. Go on. Get yourself in there. A wank in the shower, easiest money you’ll ever make, Georgey boy!’ It was true, in a weird and depressing way. Naked and conflicted, the 32-year-old football captain made his way into the adjoining square of pale beige tiling, his semi- or almost fully hard cock bouncing and swaying a bit between his thighs. mersin escort bayan He glanced over his shoulder for a second, seeing Woody kneel to the side of the entrance arch, again with a stupidly professional effort, really focusing on the task at hand, his shorts riding up about his own fluffy thighs, a curious furrow in his brow. `Go on then, knock on a shower. Start getting soapy, haha. The suds will look great on your muscles, mate. Yep, that’s it, good work Gorgeous — haha, shouldn’t really use that nickname right now, should I…? Least we have a name for your porno… oh come on, relax… now, get to it…’ Friend hunched his shoulders a little, trying to keep his face angled away from the view of Woodgate’s phone as he massaged soapy water into his chest and let it cascade down the ribbed muscles of his stomach. He clenched his buttocks too, conscious of how they might look from this angle and in the diffused light. Eventually he put a hand to his dick again, and as he did, he felt a fresh surge of discomfort and moral dilemma; this wasn’t worth it, this was just another stupid idea, worse than his gambling, and… `Mate that actually looks really sweet on here,’ Woodgate said brashly, `like proper cool — fuck’s sake, you are a big lad, ain’t you, Devon boy…?’ Loyalty to Woodgate, desperation to score the money, or traces of macho pride? Which was it that pushed his hand in a few longer, firmer strokes, until his cock was rock hard and angling away from the body, water and soaps dripping off it in the splashes of the showerhead. He kept his eyes fixed on the wall and leant his left hand to it, gripping just below the hot pipes, and beginning to pull himself off with the other. `That’s it, proper long strokes…’ The soapy water lubed his hand and his palm slid back and forth. His other hand also slid, against the wall tiles, and he almost burnt his fingers on the hot pipe. Hot pipe, he chuckled internally, looking down at his cock, that could be another name for this porno…! Hehe. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it broke the fourth wall of the recording, but he lifted his head, and glanced across the now steamy space towards the tiled archway: saw his boss, old Woody, down on one knee, leaning into the tiled arch for balance, and holding the phone firmly ahead in an outstretched hand. His face screwed up in close concentration, eyebrows arched, nose wrinkled by the expression; his other hand down against the thigh of his shorts, but sliding inwards ever so slightly, reaching for the folded bulge between his lifted and lowered legs, giving himself… a… squeeze… Friend turned his face sharply back to the wall and let out a hot breath that turned into a water snuffle. He shook water from his hair, its second wash of the afternoon (gosh it would be a fluffy mess!) and kept his eyes shut, alarmed by what he’d seen; almost seen; had he seen anything? He pulled in slow, repetitive motions, not a keen wanker because he rarely went long enough without sex from his wife to need it. `Oh come on,’ he heard the Teesside bloke grunt now. `Do it like you mean it. Give them something to enjoy when we send this video off, eh?’ George found himself rising to the challenge. He braced his tall muscular body against the blast of the shower and pulled more frantically on himself, his hand gripping that thick veiny shaft and coming right up to tease his glans with every tug. He lifted his other hand from the wall, digging his heels into the wet floor, and stroking his pecs and his six-pack as he wanked. With some vague sense of the angles, he twisted his body a little to hopefully improve the view- `Yes that’s perfect!’ -so that his cock was more on show, but he supposed almost so was his face, though only in profile, sharp jawline and classical English features, floppy wet dark hair dripping all down him… his left hand resting between his perfect dark nipples, his right hand moving in gliding rhythm up and down his big, manly cock… what would this look like on tape? Would the website like it? Just how much money WOULD they make? Would it pay off his little gambling debt and leave some spare for extra fun? Hmm… `Oh go on then,’ wheezed Woodgate with pleasant teasing, `shoot your bloody load, your irritating poster boy… Give them the money shot, haha…’ There was something exciting in the roughness of Woody’s Teesside accent or his dismissive bluntness about the whole affair, or just in his mocking praise of George’s physique and attractiveness. He knew other men resented or envied it, until they found out just what a fucking lovely chap he was. He often felt it at team parties, being introduced to the WAGs, seeing the little flash of appraisal behind their made-up expressions. The little propriety growls of his teammates when they picked up on the same moments of magnetism. Fuck, don’t get too bigheaded, he told himself, you won’t make it out of these changing rooms…! `You’re close?’ barked Jonny Woodgate. `Close,’ George confirmed in a deep grunt. He pulled extra hard on himself and almost doubled over into the wall, pressing head and shoulders against wet tiles and feeling the water spray and bubble at his strong back muscles. Oh yes. Ohhh… He brought his left arm up elbow-first to prop himself beneath the spray, threw his head back and… oh… `There it is,’ groaned Woodgate admiringly, `there’s the money shot, caught on camera. Fuck yes, buddy — this is gonna pay off your debts and MORE…’ And there it was, on the small screen, a little pixelated but still relatively clear. The agonised and beautiful expression on the powerful centre-back’s face, the tightening of his physique, the rush of his fist, the little jet of white for a moment before it was dashed away in the shower. He’d refused to let Friend watch the video after they were done; he just left him to clean and dry and dress and gave him a brief friendly hug on the way out. `Get home to your wife,’ he urged, `and forget this. We’ll catch up tomorrow. I’ll edit it down. Put a nice discreet filter on. Send it over. Promise you, bud. Leave it with me — and we’ll have the money with us before you know it.’ He pressed his fingertip to the tracking bar at the beginning of the screen and rewound it a minute so he could watch George Friend’s gorgeous climax for the fourth time. He was sat at his desk with the phone propped up against his dead laptop screen, angled perfectly for his vewing enjoyment; as he watched, he pulled furiously on his own sweaty cock inside his shorts, wanking it against their black nylon and the warm fuzz of his hairy thigh. He bit his lip and concentrated, seeing it as if in slow-motion, that achingly beautiful final few moments before George blew his wad into the shower blast and let out that soundless howl of orgasm. Wow. Jonny was close but not done. He rewound it further, to near the beginning, so he could watch the moment George was down to his white briefs and beginning to tease his bare untanned backside. The website wasn’t bullshit. It wasn’t like he was totally making things up. It did exist. He HAD found out about it through a daft little disciplinary with some spotty teen fag who was trying to exploit a part-time job at the club’s training facility. He had done a bit of research, a bit of watching the sordid low-quality clips it offered; deeply unexciting material to a 40-year-old man who had spent most of his adult life in and out of changing rooms and communal showers and sweaty post-match celebrations, mud and grass everywhere, cocks and balls even more prominent. Nah, the site did nothing for him. But the idea of it still did. Jonny Woodgate was comfortably straight, as far as he’d ever evaluated, but he was no stranger to the fluid enjoyments of his fellow athletes. He had, after all, spent a frustrating few years at Real Madrid, mentored by David Beckham himself; Woodgate knew that pussy was not the only fruit. Of course, he would not be submitting this video via the shifty email link on the website’s homepage. For fuck’s sake! As if he’d let one of his players be shamed like that. Imagine the press if it leaked to the mainstream media. Championship hunk, Boro captain, baring all and blowing his seed, for fuck’s sake… How naïve and dumb WAS beautiful Friend? What a sweet lad, though! He paused the video on a cute moment, George turning to expose his big tool for the first time, that dangling dong beneath his messy pubes. Woodgate let out a playful little sigh, closed his eyes, and spunked a jet of creamy cum down his leg, flecking the underside of the table, staining his shorts, dribbling some right down to his ankle. Oh god yes. No, he would not be submitting the video. The requested sum would land in George’s bank account tomorrow, and it would be straight from his private savings. Worth every penny for the laugh of it all, for sure — he’d been tempted to just hand it straight to Friend, but when he’d felt his desperation, well… nothing wrong with a bit of fun between old mates, was there? And bloody hell, how Friend had enjoyed it once he relaxed into it…! Natural exhibitionist, as Woodgate had expected ever since he got sent a jokey copy of that charity calendar. Haha. He leaned back in his seat, teasing his cock through the shorts, letting the silenced video play on to its watery completion on his phone screen, and grinning to himself. A tense few months, a busy couple of weeks, an exhausting day; all work and no play, being manager, really! Thank fuck he could still find some sordid distraction in the athletic young men around him… just as Becks had taught! **NAUGHTY AGAIN… NOT STRICTLY PREMIERSHIP! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE CONTINUED E MAILS OF SUPPORT, SO GREAT TO HEAR FROM EVERYONE READING THE CHAPTERS. I HOPE I CAN CONTINUE TO ENTERTAIN**

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın